


rest well

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [88]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Dreams, Implied Relationships, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27159481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Just a good dream for once.
Series: DS Extras [88]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Kudos: 16





	rest well

**Author's Note:**

> It's Maxwell's birthday, best give him a good dream.

It was a dream, of course. All just a dream.

He supposed he couldn't be blamed, for indulging in it. Night terrors, age old memories of the Throne; those were far more common to visit him when he rested, and the less he slept the less he had to endure the nightmares.

But, this was no nightmare. It was just a dream.

A nice one, he thought, and the rose garden was indeed beautiful, what with the blooming flowers and clean marble statues and clear bright light, the faintest hint of white clouds, the slight damp of dew in the grass underfoot. It was a pretty sight, a garden walk in the early morning, and walk he did, as the dream drifted, as his lucidity fluctuated in conscious and subconscious thought.

The roses did not prick him when he passed a hand atop the blooms, and the path, green and inlet with stone, guided by risen marble statues that had no missing limbs, no missing heads, only beautiful craftsmanship, led him along. 

This dream was a nice one. When the path opened into a clearing, more than just marble statues now, benches and tables and chairs and the odd fanciful decorations, his lucid mind rose above the calm and finally recognized the unreality about him.

He almost awoke then, when he caught sight of a figure standing by the fountain.

But then, this was all just a dream. When she turned around it was all smoke and mirrors where her face was, only a small, familiar wide smile.

It didn't quite matter though, not to his dream mind; he raised a hand, walked over at a leisure pace to greet her, and her name couldn't pass his lips here but she held her arms out and met him halfway.

_What a wonderful dream._

He felt her grip, then, a familiar memory ingrained into the dream fog, and his answering hug was one that encircled her back and had him almost attempt to lift her, a certain swell of emotion in his chest at the sight, the validation of her presence, and Maxwell knew he was dreaming but that just didn't _matter._

When she spoke it was all soft sound, musical instruments in a chorus and playing orchestra, wind chimes and then string, pipes, piano; she spoke without hurry, and the dream allowed him a brief moment of almost forgotten youth and he did pick her up, happily spun her and listened to the chiming light laughs, soft piano key giggles, and when he found himself smiling so wide it almost felt enough to hurt, heart hammering in his chest, singing in wonderful _happiness-_

Maxwell, for a moment, almost wished for the dream to never reach an end.

She laughed in his arms, faceless and an empty shadow memory, and his chest and heart billowed with unspoken emotion and unmade promises, and all he could do was smile and hold her in one last hug, wishing with all he had that she _knew._

The dream was a good one, but all things must come to an end. When he finally set her down, exhilarated at not feeling even an ounce of exhaustion or aching from the activity, she lightly took his hand, slid her soft fingers between the dark taloned ends of his, and led him along through the garden. They passed many more roses, of so many varying colors and sizes, but there was only one path through this dreamscape and she led him once more to the exact exit.

She gave him a light push, still smiling warmly, and her fingertips laid to his back for a few extra seconds, fuzzy afterimage fragmenting, soft wind chimes seeing him off in a gentle breeze that faded away the roses, the thorns and brambles, the marble pillars and dew heavy grasses and stone path, until-

-until Maxwell forgot he was in a dream, less than lucid in the disorienting fog. 

When his mind came back around, focused once more, it was to a house.

 _A shack_ , his lucid side supplied, but warm light drifted from the windows and the door was already opening when he had barely risen a fist to knock, and when he was greeted the orchestra in the mists of his mind softly sounded out with a solo.

Faceless swirling dark colors, fog and smoke and mirrors, a small, sad, too familiar smile, but hands reached out to hold his, bone talons entwined warmly with his tipped dark claws, to lightly tug him forward, and then his feet overstepped the houses front door and everything was bright and warm inside. He was led forward, words lost in the brass instruments tongue, in the overlong muted solo of trumpet, and when he tried to answer back no sound came from his own numb lips but he was answered all the same, no matter the rising bright mist.

Steps were slowed, as he dragged his feet a moment, a semi lucid dizzying few seconds before his mind was dragged back by calloused rough hands at the sides of his head, palms to his cheeks and dragging him down, and the simmering emotion flooded at the smile he was met with, faceless and half memory and yet shining bright all the same.

It was enough to burst a subconscious bubble, into bright explosive laughter, verging on the line of hysterics and wakefulness as lucidity almost pulled him out, but then his head bumped to the faceless that he knew so well and he looked upon him, in all that his dream addled mind could summon, and his laughter sunk into shameless giggles as he was dragged down and close for a few precious seconds.

_Such a wonderful dream._

He laughed more, by the time they parted, and his faceless love outstretched his arms and Maxwell buried himself forward, into and against what his dream mind could supply for him, clinging tight and wheezing half giggles, half sobs, another pure sense of _happiness_ rising, filling in the hollow of his chest.

It was something his lucidity almost coughed him awake over, smearing the colors and the old visage of the house before brightening warm and comfy once more, and the faceless man holding him as much as he held back finally had to untangle from his arms, finally settled his calloused clawed hands to Maxwell's wrists in a firm, comforting grip.

Worldess, sorrowfully wonderful song as he haphazardly swiped the building small tears from his eyes, but when his misplaced memory of love started to lead him forward once more he kept along every step, a deep tug to his chest, to what further ruled himself, leading him along.

The backdoor of the house opened up into gray fog, the brightness of the houses light fading away as his focus was turned elsewhere, and yet all the same he held to one hand for as far as he could, squeezing one last time as his chest hiccuped and subconscious overruled the blur of forgotten feeling in favor of dream fog ahead instead.

Music followed him, for that last moment, and the smile was still small and sad but when he dipped his head down for a goodbye it delighted, flooded his chest with warmth to be answered back with the same joy.

It was all just a dream, he knew, but Maxwell couldn't let it go.

_Not yet, not yet…_

Then the lights faded, and it grew dark and gray, shadowed by smoke forests, mirrors of massive trunks and spiralling branches, and there was no path and his lucidity recognized a lack of form for himself, empty and glowing hollow in spirit. 

Colors, warm and soft, darted between the shadows now, brightening then fading, and they held hands together and played and danced and sung their fragile wind blown instruments with all the voice his memory had left.

And Maxwell stayed where he was, watched on. There were more colors, lost in the dark and yet finding their way here, and he knew them, but-

_All just a dream._

For a brief moment, as the orchestra started up and sung softly together, he almost had form enough to join them.

Maybe, in some faint way, a part of him really, truly did.

But the rumble of dream fog was parting now, awaking, and the colors melded and mixed and meshed together without him, as he faded back with the shadow fog forest, as he watched on.

Until the very, very end.

When Maxwell woke up, having no memory of his dreams but so very exhausted, chest tight with things he'd not give name to, it was still quite dark.

Night moved, slow and steady, outside the tent. The ambience of the nearby forest rose, sounds he knew by heart by now, animal and shadow, the soft silken drift of a Queens lazy focus; they faded to the background. The other tents about camp, housing sleeping survivors, rattled with drifting snores, mumbled sleep talk, sleepy shifting and turning, and that he could hear over the night's soft musics.

Next to him, sleeping deeply, the quieter breaths of his partner ruled more of the night's air. Back turned to him, wiggled under the thick covers, and Maxwell only gave a slow half look, a vague need for assurance, before the exhaustion caught him up again and made him fight to keep his eyes aflutter.

 _It must have been a nice dream_ , he recognized belatedly, and Maxwell let his eyes close, a soft hint of a laugh escaping him in a huff of sighed sad sound.

He never remembered his good dreams.


End file.
